


How Sherlock Holmes Met Greg Lestrade

by believeinsh2012



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Cocaine, Drug Use, Drugs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinsh2012/pseuds/believeinsh2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one scene ficlet that explores the initial meeting between Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Sherlock Holmes Met Greg Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for our yearly Secret Santa Fic event on the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum.

Sherlock lived on the ground floor, thank God. It was a lot easier, simply for those times when he came home too high to walk properly, and just about managed to stumble through the door and collapse onto the sofa. He rarely even made it to the bedroom, except for those times when he was on a come down and didn't want to move for days on end.

He lived alone. He preferred it that way. He knew he was a difficult man to get on with, and besides which, he didn’t want someone going on at him telling him how bad drugs were and how he should clean up his act, look after himself etc etc. He hated that, and got enough of it from Mycroft. It was his own life, his own choice. He didn’t need a lecture.

Right now, it had been just over twelve hours since his last fix of cocaine and although he wasn't withdrawing properly yet, he was starting to feel it; the shakes, the nervous jittering, the constant paranoia. He'd searched all over his messy flat for any spare change, scraping together the last he had left so that he could pay a visit to his dealer. Unless he found a case soon, things would start to get desperate. His detective career was off to a slow start, but he knew it had potential. He’d had a few private clients interested in employing his services, but the mysteries hadn’t been anywhere near intriguing enough, and he’d been able to solve them far too easily for his complex and ever eager mind. He needed something more complex, more exciting, and he thought at last he had found it.

There had been a series of accidental deaths reported in the newspapers, except; as far as Sherlock was concerned, they weren’t accidental. The police hadn’t spotted it, of course, but then, they never did. There was a serial killer on the loose and he was being allowed to get away with it time and time again. His MO was different every time, that was the problem. Heart attack, hit and run, accident at work, house fire. No one had even considered checking for links; no one except Sherlock. All the victims were connected. It was only by chance and through his connections in the seedy underworld of London that Sherlock was able to determine that every single one of the recently deceased was a member of a private Texas Hold ‘Em poker club ran in the back room of a local pub. There was nothing particularly suspicious about that per say, as the game had become fairly popular recently and people of all ages and backgrounds were playing it. One of the victims had been a respectable businesswoman with a potential future in politics; another had been a husband with a wife and two children and a good steady job. They weren’t criminals except, as Sherlock dug further under the surface, he realised they were mixed up with someone who was; someone else who attended the same gambling evening as them and someone who almost certainly had blood on his hands - a man named Simon Merivale. He wasn’t sure how all the pieces fitted together yet, but the mystery was there somewhere, and there was definitely something suspicious going on, something that was worth further investigation. He was going as far as he could with the whole thing in his spare time, but it was difficult, and he was frequently coming up against brick walls. His life would be made so much easier if he could get access to peoples’ police records, homes and work places without having to use illegal means, but he knew the chances of getting the police to listen to him were few and far between. He’d tried before, on numerous occasions, and had always been laughed out of the station, his theories dismissed as nonsense. It was frustrating not to be taken seriously, but at least he had his drug habit to keep his mind from running completely amok.

At long last, he managed to find the money he needed, and he was ready to go, grabbing his scruffy looking Belstaff that was in need of a dry clean and throwing it on over his dirty tattered white shirt. It was the same one he'd been wearing for the last three days and his suit trousers too were in need of some care, the smart crease down the middle barely visible, his black brogues dusty and muddy from treks through the park to pick up drugs, which was exactly where he was going that evening.

He stepped out of the flat and pulled the door closed behind him, dropping the keys in his pocket, then shivered and did up the buttons of his coat as he began walking off down the street. It was literally down the road and round the corner to the nearest park, and he was there within ten minutes.

He took his phone out to check messages from Pete, his dealer, and was informed he was waiting in the usual place. At this point, all he could concentrate on was getting into the park and getting that cocaine in his system.

He crossed the road and wandered through the gates.

There was no one around and it was almost eerily quiet, but it was always like this at that time of night, and it didn't bother him.

The public toilets were about half way in. As he got a little closer, the smell of weed wafted towards his nostrils, the smoke getting stronger and thicker the nearer he got, until eventually he could see the shape of a man leaning against the wall and the red spark of his spliff glowing in the darkness.

"Pete," Sherlock smiled and held out his hand.

The dealer grinned back and shook it. "Lockie. Good to see you."

"You too."

He didn't particularly like the nickname 'Lockie' but tolerated it from Pete seeing as he was one of his best dealers.

He handed over the cash, and the scruffy young man with the straggly beard and the parka coat removed his hand from his own pocket and gave Sherlock a small bottle and a fresh needle still in its packet.

He took a drag on his spliff then handed that to Sherlock too. "Here'ya mate, finish that, I better be off. See you around, yeah."

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock nodded, giving him a small wave as he wandered off, leaving him stood alone by the toilets.

He took a drag on the spliff then grimaced and walked in to find himself a cubicle. He rarely smoked weed and didn’t particularly care for the effects, but it was free so he wasn’t going to say no. Once he was in the toilet though, he tossed it down on the floor and shrugged off his coat, getting straight to the business of fixing himself a hit.

He sat down on the toilet seat, putting the cocaine and needle on his lap, then rolled up the shirt sleeve on his left arm. He ripped open the packet on the needle and held it between his teeth as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle of cocaine. Then he took the syringe and drew up a half dosage of the drug. Seeing a vein, he eagerly plunged in the needle and pressed it down, watching the clear liquid vanish into his system.

"Hmmph..." He closed his eyes, already breathing heavier as he felt an instant effect. Once it was all gone, he withdrew the syringe carefully and disposed of it in the bin next to the toilet, leaning his head against the wall for a moment, feeling utter relief.

He focused on the small changes in his body, enjoying every one of them. The increase in his heart rate, the heat coming back to his chilled bones, his mind starting to kick into gear, clouded thoughts clearing. Then he staggered out the cubicle and back outside into the main part of the park, looking up at the stars and the moonlight as he began to wander back in the direction he’d originally come from.

He put his hands in his pockets and enjoyed the fresh air and the silence, and the pleasant cloud over his vision that detached him from all of reality. Grinning, he removed a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuffed one into his mouth, searching around his other pockets for a lighter.

“Those things’ll kill you, y’know.”

Sherlock stopped dead.

The voice had come from somewhere behind him, and it was a voice he didn’t recognise.

He spun round to see a silvery haired man in his mid forties standing a few feet away from him. He had seemingly stepped out of the shadows and Sherlock had obviously been too out of it to really be paying attention.

“I’ll take my chances,” he muttered, finding the light and sparking up his cigarette. He took a long slow drag then blew out the smoke into the night air, the nicotine mixing nicely with the cocaine. He always smoked a lot more than usual when he was high.

He glanced the stranger up and down, taking in his long rain mac and standard cheap M & S suit. He looked like a cop, and not a very good one at that.

“Look…I haven’t got anything on me, officer, and I don’t want any trouble,” he said diplomatically, raising his hands in the air. It was a lie, of course. He had cocaine in his pocket, but this guy didn’t need to know that.

“Huh. How d’you know I’m an officer?” he asked. “Is it that bloody obvious?” He looked down at himself critically, as if trying to work it out.

“Well, it is to me,” shrugged Sherlock. “But then, most things are.”

“Clever arse, are you?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Actually, I know a lot more about you than you might think,” replied the man with a smile on his face.

Sherlock gave a soft, derisive snort. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“I know you come here every other day to buy cocaine from a guy named Pete Osborne. A guy we’ve been trying to nab for the past six months.”

“Not doing very well then, are you? Drugs squad, are you? Should have guessed, awful suit like that.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with this suit,” the man waggled a finger at Sherlock. “My wife bought me this one.”

“The wife that’s cheating on you?”

“What? She’s not cheating on me.”

“Yes, she is.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“With the window cleaner.”

“The window cleaner? He only comes once a bloody fortnight!”

“Try telling that to your wife. She’s probably with him right now.”

“What is this, some kind of joke?”

“No,” Sherlock sighed. “I just know things. This is what I do.”

“What d’you mean, what you do?”

The stoned detective rolled his eyes and began at the man’s feet. “Those shoes you’re wearing. Two years old but they look brand new, hardly ever been worn. They’re your best pair, so you don’t wear them out very often and yet here you are risking getting them muddy in the middle of a park at night trailing a junkie (that’s me, by the way). Question is, why? Not a date with your wife otherwise you’d still be with her now, unless you live separately in which case I’d really question the future of your marriage. You could have dropped her off at home before you came out, but in that case you would have had time to quickly change your shoes and I believe you would have done so considering how pristine you’ve kept them so no, you haven’t been home and you haven’t been on a date. Why then, would you be wearing those shoes? Obviously for work, but you’re not going to wear them to go running round chasing criminals, so you must have been to an important meeting that kept you late at the office. You wanted to make a good impression, so you put on your best shoes and your best suit, which is actually rather awful by the way, you really must try harder, but anyway, safest bet is to assume you were meeting with your boss, your superior at Scotland Yard. Aiming at a promotion, are we? Just waiting for that next big case so we can snatch up the title of…ooh, let’s see…I…I reckon you’re aiming for Detective Inspector, you look like the sort, and you’re getting on a bit now too, this is your last shot, you really want it, I can see the hunger, the desperation, the desire but I’ll tell you something, Sergeant, a little bit of advice from one detective to a wannabee detective…you’re not going to find that ‘next big case’ sniffing around after the likes of Pete Osborne. I suppose you were going to blackmail me into helping you, weren’t you? That was the plan, wasn’t it? You’d need to catch him in the act of dealing, and you’d need witnesses against him to stand up in court. You’re not a complete idiot so you know that I’ve got drugs on me right now and you were intending to threaten me with imminent arrest unless I agreed. Well, don’t bother. Pete Osborne is simply a tiny fish in a large pond, he’s insignificant, not to mention being my best dealer, so forget about him. How about a murderer instead? Much better. A serial killer, to be precise, and I can point you in the right direction. Now that’ll definitely earn you your promotion.”

Finally, Sherlock closed his mouth and took a step back, so that he could enjoy the amazed look on the other man’s face. It was an expression he’d grown used to since his abilities became so advanced, but it was one he never grew tired of seeing.

“H-how…how the…bloody hell did you…How the hell did you know all that?”

“I didn’t. I deduced it by looking at you, by making observations.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“No. Sherlock Holmes.” He extended out a hand. The man took it.

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Nice to meet you, Graham.”

“Greg.”

“Right. Lestrade.”

“Wait…did you say you were a detective?” The man frowned, trying to remember some of the details from the long rambling speech the rather impressive druggie had given him. He certainly hadn’t been expecting _that._

“Private detective, yes,” Sherlock confirmed with a nod.

“Suppose that comes in handy then, does it? All that…stuff.”

“A deductive ability does tend to help, yes. Surprisingly.”

“And…that stuff you were saying about my wife…” Lestrade began hesitantly. “Did you uh…did you…deduce that…too?”

“Yes, all deduced,” Sherlock sighed, flicking some ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “I can smell the window spray on your shirt collar from where she kissed you on the neck this morning when you left for work. Industrial stuff, special brand, strong, not the branded type you’d buy in the supermarket to do the windows yourself. She’s seen him recently, probably last night. Significant that she didn’t kiss your lips, by the way. Another sign. There’s probably more, you just haven’t been noticing them. Or perhaps you didn’t want to.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Nope. The window cleaner.”

“For God’s – will you just…shut up, smart arse, and…and gimme a bloody cigarette whilst you’re at it!”

“I thought you said these things’ll kill you…I know you’re wife’s a cheat but suicide really isn’t the answer,” Sherlock quietly teased him, but removed the packet from his pocket anyway and offered him one.

Lestrade took it and lit it up with a lighter from his own pocket. He was trying to quit, but he still carried one around for emergencies. “What’s this about a serial killer?” He asked, taking a quick drag.

“Oh yes, there’s a serial killer on the loose. I’ve been tracking him for quite some time. Got all the evidence, all the connections…just need to make them fit. If you could give me access to their houses – “

“What?”

“Or even just one person’s house; the house of my suspect. I’m 97% certain I can wrap up the case for you within a week.”

“Don’t you think the police would have noticed if there was a serial killer?” Lestrade asked sceptically.

“Not if he’s a good serial killer,” replied Sherlock quickly. “And this one is. You lot haven’t suspected a thing. But if you want my information, and I’m guessing you do, then we’re going to have to make a deal.”

“Why would you want to help me? Hm? That’s what I don’t get. Use your information and have your help but allow me to get the credit and get a promotion? Why would you do that? What’s in it for you?”

“The work,” Sherlock answered, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

“I can’t pay you,” Lestrade said instantly. “I mean, if we were going to do this, it would be way, way, way below the radar. I mean, if anyone finds out that I’ve been…consulting with an amateur.”

“The brain work,” insisted Sherlock. “I’m not interested in the money. It’s the puzzle that interests me, the mystery itself, the crime and the solving of it, the deductions…”

“You just…like solving crimes?”

“I like challenging mental problems. And I don’t mean cryptic crosswords. Although I am very good at those too.”

“Yeah, why doesn’t that surprise me,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes. “God, I can’t believe I’m even considering this. Why am I even considering this?”

“Because I’ve given you a glimpse of what I can do and you’re interested. You know I’m good, and I have something that you want. That elusive big case. And this really is a big one, Lestrade. This one will make your career if you break it. Which you will, of course. With my help.”

“And you’re literally just doing this for kicks? Are you mad?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Alright, alright. But only if you clean up your act.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I’m not working with an addict.”

“I’m not an addict,” Sherlock scoffed. He was so used to defending his drug usage, it came as second nature, whether it was true or not.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Holmes. Put it this way then, I’m not working with anyone who takes drugs. I just…can’t. I’m already putting myself at risk by agreeing to consult with you at all. It’s only because…yeah…like you said, you’ve shown me what you can do and…I have to say it was rather bloody impressive. You’ve obviously….got potential and – “

“Well exactly,” interrupted Sherlock smugly. “You need me, so – “

“No.” Lestrade pointed a finger at him. “No drugs. You get clean, or this is not happening. Do we have a deal?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. He was pretending to be considering it, although really, there was nothing to consider. He wanted this. He wanted this more than all the drugs in the world.

“Yes, alright then,” he shrugged casually, offering out his hand to shake on it.

Lestrade nodded, secretly a lot more pleased than he was letting on. He was trying to play it cool just as much as his new partner in crime was.

After finishing off their cigarettes in the quiet darkness of the park, the two men parted company, each going their separate ways, Lestrade to the home he shared with his cheating wife, and Sherlock to his small one bedroom flat on Montague Street.

As he put his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushed against the small cocaine bottle nestled down behind his wallet.

Frowning, he pulled it out and looked at it for a moment, then smirked and tossed it into the nearest bin.

He tugged up the collar of his coat and broke into a stride, a smile on his lips as he walked briskly home. He could tell this was going to be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.


End file.
